


Our Aching Souls

by BountyHuntress16



Series: Daughter of Gelmorra [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Background Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Duskwight Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Everyone is Queer, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Hand Jobs, Haurchefant Greystone Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injured Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Estinien Wyrmblood/Haurchefant Greystone, Patch 3.0: Heavensward Spoilers, Polyamory, Post-The Vault (Final Fantasy XIV), Protectiveness, Somewhat Awkward Sex, Teasing, Unresolved Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BountyHuntress16/pseuds/BountyHuntress16
Summary: The staggering, surreal events in The Vault leave Estinien reeling. Aymeric needs him in bed, in his arms; no matter what it takes to settle him.-Side story/midquel to "This World of Trials"
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: Daughter of Gelmorra [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956604
Kudos: 31





	Our Aching Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This one is in the realm of "could stand on its own but reads better with its companion story" which is titled "This World of Trials"

Sainte is the true king of Borel Manor.

His meals are on-time and on-schedule, lest anyone suffer his tirades. If he sets on an action, no one may stop him. Better to keep doors locked and sealed then attempt banishing him from the heirloom Borel furniture. (The late Viscountess de Borel was spared knowing what happened to her great-great-grandmother’s periwinkle settee.)

Would that Sainte were with them in Fortemps Manor, he and Estinien would make quite a pair. The old grey tomcat never _just_ settles down for sleep. He must stalk about the room and _perhaps_ deign to end up on the bed. Unless Aymeric dares move too abruptly. Then, Sainte will stomp off in a fit of pique.

So too, does Estinien stalk. He must think that–clad in borrowed sleeping clothes instead of armor–he isn’t making noise. Or he is beyond such concerns. Aymeric tries not to look too closely or obviously (he is supposed to be sleeping). But even in the fireplace’s dim light, Estinien’s gaze appears far away. 

_Likely in the memories Nerys’ Mother Crystal returned to us._ The same ones cycling over and over for Aymeric. Racing along with the residual ache their return has caused. _And she suffers such pain whenever she has a vision? ‘Tis a hard lot she has been cast._

At last, Estinien ceases wearing a path in the handsome throw rug and makes for where his boots and lance lay. Time for Aymeric to cease his little charade.

“Will you not come to bed?”

Estinien shoots him a withering look. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I _am_ trying. It would be easier if you settled down too.”

"You are far too injured for that. I will see myself out-"

“ _Estinien.”_ He imbues the syllables with every onze of his need and adoration, cloaks them with the resonance of command. Watches as it runs through his lover’s spine, the flashes of irritation and love in his expression.

“You cannot do that every time,” Estinien mutters. He strides over to the bed. Though a storm rages behind his ceruleum-colored eyes, his gentle hands move Aymeric with grave care. Just enough to accommodate his own lanky bulk and no more. Fingertips stroke over the faded bruises on Aymeric’s jaw, curling about his chin to get a better look. The marks should be gone come morning, leaving only aching flesh.

Count Edmont’s chirurgeons were thorough. Considering what he faced– _and he does not want to consider it, not now–_ he is in excellent shape. Young Master Leveilleur had attended him shortly after to catalogue his remaining hurts. And then directed his carbuncle to sniff out any signs of foul play, in case someone had paid the healers to finish the job. A hidden curse threaded into healing spells, a bit of slow-acting toxins in the potions.

Aymeric loves animals, even ones made of aether. Having an adorable little friend so near should have been comforting. Instead, he had to make lists of who might work his father’s will while Thordan is gone and to what magnitude. It will take years to dig out the poisonous root of his leadership, to dismantle the absolute loyalty he inspires.

He sits up a little, trying not to wince. Failing. Estinien speaks tomes of reproachment with one look before he tugs back the covers. And then freezes, staring with near-incandescent rage.

“Lie down.” Aymeric tugs ineffectually at his borrowed robe to cover himself. “And come sleep. I’ll not have you cavorting on Lord Edmont’s roof.”

Estinien sucks at his teeth, movements tense and mechanical as he slides beneath the blankets to lie on his side. Aymeric moves as close as he can without too much pain. His body protests all the way but he _needs_ to bury his face into that shoulder. Inhale his distinctive scent–leather, steel, soap, and frost. 

His lover sighs, arm stiff with tension as he slings it over Aymeric. Fingers graze the silken robe over the faded, healing burn on his back. A match for the one on his stomach–both in the shape of a hand.

The chirurgeons promised to work on those again when they return. Do what they can to remove them.

“Today was...nothing we have ever known or likely will again. But we have time enough later to dwell on it. For now, it helps to have you rest beside me, Estinien.”

The grip tightens and this time Aymeric hides his wince. Some pain is worth the closeness, the press of this precious body and the even more precious soul within it. His one regret, as he lay in the gaol and knew he would not leave alive, was losing one more chance to lie in these arms.

“The three of you,” Estinien says, voice tight with anger. “You need to stop sacrificing yourselves.”

“Love-”

“They would have killed you had we not come. All... _that_ happened because Haurche threw himself in the way. And _she_ -she died for me. Her Hydaelen fixed things but what if she hadn’t?”

Aymeric touches his chin, drawing Estinien to meet his gaze. “She did.”

“I was furious. And I did not yet know the extent of what they…” A swallow. A flickering glance down to his stomach. “I will never forgive them. I knew that then–that I would tear _him_ apart for letting it happen and them for doing it. And when she could not convince me to put a leash on my anger...she threw herself on that lance. Over and over."

Aymeric nods. He fears his dreams will replay Nerys or Haurchefant perishing. Perhaps for moons to come. A small price to pay, to have them alive, but not one he relishes. “I suspect she did not want a cycle to end with your death.”

“Hn.” The venting seems to have eased Estinien’s anger. It is less palpable now, reduced to a simmer beneath his skin as he tries to relax. Aymeric feels him clench and unclench his fist. “Haurche is...he has always been that way. Stubborn, self-sacrificing fool. And these Scions, they throw her at every enemy they cannot themselves take down. Enough so that she does it now without their orders.”

“Her skill is beyond any either of us have witnessed-”

“Aye, the only Primal slayer in the realm. That does not change how little she seems to care about her own skin. Just as you thought only the great Ser Aymeric could approach _that man_.”

Aymeric sighs. “We had this conversation last night, love.”

“Yes. We did.” And Estinien had told him then not to go alone. Not to trust a man who scarce acknowledged him outside of matters of the state. But Aymeric has never pretended to be immune to foolishness, hope, or sentimentality. 

He is not upset he was wrong. He is upset what being wrong led to. _Had Haurchefant or Nerys died because of me..._

“You two grew close during your travels, it seems.” He brings the conversation back to the Warrior of Light. "I could tell, even in the short time we've been reunited."

“You could say that.”

“I’m glad. I had my concerns, given all that transpired between you two prior.”

“She made the right choice to fight me off. Not that I have any forgiveness in me for him, nor that much sympathy.” 

There are tells with the Azure Dragoon, if one knows where to look. The tightness of his jaw, the flickering gaze, the change in the tenor of his voice. Aymeric sees them all, sees a man who wants to forgive his surrogate father but does not think he can. A strange, warped parallel of his own feelings.

“She and I have an accord now that exists outside of _him._ ‘Tis better that way.”

“Is it so surprising then, that she would save you?”

“No. That is not…” Estinien shakes his head. “It’s of no importance. And you should try to sleep.”

“And leave you stewing like this? I think not.”

Aymeric slides his hands to cup Estinien’s face. Silky, silver hair feathers the back of his hands. He kisses him, and receives a kiss back. Hesitant, and then resigned as Aymeric draws him into a deeper intimacy. Parts those full lips with his tongue. 

Thinks of how he might have lost the chance to do this again.

“If I am to sleep," Aymeric kisses his neck. "Then you will sleep next to me."

"This is not sleeping."

"This is how I will get you to sleep as my words aren’t soothing you and I have forbidden you from leaving."

He spits into his palm and slides the hand beneath Estinien’s loose pants, finding no other barrier beneath. The gesture is purely to shock his lover–always surprised when the Knight Commander does something counter to the elegance he usually embraces. 

Aymeric _does_ enjoy elegance and refinement. There is still something to be said for the crude and direct.

Estinien grabs his forearm with a moan, keeping it in place. “We had better not have to explain this to the chirurgeons-”

"Nothing we do here will injure me further. You can return the favor at a later date."

That is enough to still further protests. Estinien draws his hands away, one resting on his side while the other curls against his chest. He is already half-hard, needing only a few expert twists and strokes to awaken fully. If it would not hurt to move so, Aymeric would gladly lean forward to take it in his mouth.

As strong as Estinien’s appetite is, his protective instinct is stronger. No doubt offering would put an end to everything rather than risk Aymeric shifting positions.

He raises his lips from shoulders to that lovely ear. “Now, does this help relax you?”

"Damn you," Estinien hisses. "I am far from relaxed now with your teasing hand."

"I like damnation." He nips Estinien's earlobe, thumb swirling in the pre-cum at the head of his cock. “Hold still a moment, let me get a look at your excessively pretty cock.”

Estinien curses as Aymeric draws him out fully. “Leave it to you to see beauty in a blunt tool.”

“And whatever does that mean?”

“Rougher,” he says, ignoring the question. “It won’t break.”

“As you wish.” Aymeric hums and squeezes the way his lover likes. Estinien swallows his moan, drawing a hand to his mouth and biting down upon it. It is not a challenge and yet he cannot help but take it as one, growing rougher with his gestures. Watching Estinien’s eyes flutter shut and the soft sounds that manage to escape.

The manor is large but full of people tonight–four Fortemps lords, their servants, and the coterie of house guests seeking shelter. Nerys is likely deep in exhaustive sleep after everything but...Aymeric would not dare wake her or Haurchefant for all the world. Not after today. So he pulls back a little, despite Estinien’s frustrated grunt.

“We’re not alone after all, and her room is not that far.” 

“You are the worst kind of tease-”

“Poor reward, for the woman who saved you. For that, I would give Nerys anything she asks.”

Estinien makes an impatient sound, his cock seeming to twitch in Aymeric’s hand. The enigmatic look in his eyes from before is back, the very same he seems to have whenever this topic comes up. Or whenever she is near. Not for the first time, he wonders…

"For every time she saved you," he continues. "A different reward. What shall I give her, do you think?"

“Anything, everything.” Estinien groans, hips rocking into Aymeric’s slick fingers. “I don’t know. I am not good with gifts.”

Untrue. Estinien does not fuss and rarely bothers with the trappings of paper, ribbon and boxes. But his presents are always thoughtful, always perfectly suited to the recipient. Even outside of battle, the man cannot help but fulfill his missions to the best of his ability.

He chuckles. “"Anything and everything? Even whatever, or whomever is dearest to my heart?"

Estinien cannot help the moan of pleasure anymore then Aymeric can help delight in causing it. He rewards the confession with a rough stroke, kissing the tender spot behind his ear. It is something he suspected but put aside as a bit of wishful thinking,

Their arrangement means both can take others to bed when they like, especially when separated. It has never resulted in bringing someone into their shared bed, though the notion has always been there. He’d suspected it would be Haurchefant, if he ever got the nerve to ask his old friend.

Recently, another possibility has come along.

“Ah…” Aymeric slows his pace again, tapering off till his hand barely moves. “So if I give you to her, would you let me join?”

“Aymeric,” he growls. A warning.

“Because I would want to.” He kisses Estinien’s neck. This might be wicked of him, perhaps cruel. But his lover grows more pliant, less wound with tension as he continues. “Either her between us, or you between her and I. Or perhaps we all take turns into the hours of dawn-”

Estinien grabs the back of his neck and kisses him, punishing with teeth and tongue. Aymeric well deserves it and more. He would not blame his love if he left him now, flushed and wanting. 

He stays, batting Aymeric’s hand away before hooking fingers into his smalls. Drawing out Aymeric’s cock and examining the rosy tip _begging_ for relief. “You are going to hold onto me as tight as possible.”

Aymeric secures his arm around Estinien’s back, the arm beneath he slips between them to wrap about their members. His love makes a frustrated noise. Gently but firmly positions it so Aymeric’s other arm wraps tight beneath, wedged between Estinien’s chest and forearm. 

“You’ll need two hands to wrap around them both.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Estinien spits into his hand and smears his fingers in their pre-cum. Were they home, there would be a bedside table with aids for such thing. Open-minded as Count Edmont is, Aymeric doubts he would want his servants being sent out to fetch lubricant. 

_Emmanellain would have gotten it for us, had we thought to ask._

It turns out Aymeric was not flattering himself and Estinien’s large, lovely hands don’t quite wrap around both their cocks. He “allows” Aymeric to free the arm beneath them and add his spit-slicked hand to the mess between them. It is not as pleasant, not as smooth as it would be with actual oil. He feels the brutal pace Estinien wants to set even as he moves slow.

“Estinien-” He hisses. “Don’t worry about me. Just-”

“I’ll worry about you if I like.”

“It won’t kill me not to come.” He sinks his teeth into the side of Estinien’s neck, urging his hand to move faster. Pressing more fingers to his lover's cock than his own. A dangerous, thrilling sound rumbles through Estinien’s chest and he presses his advantage. Takes hold of the thick cock and squeezes just so until his love is fucking into his fingers without stop.

Estinien comes with a barely muffled shout. Aymeric has a few moments to gloat before he finds his hips pinned to the mattress and deep blue eyes boring into his.

“Do not. Move.” Estinien commands and that is when he understands just what it does to him, when Aymeric uses his authoritative voice in bed.

And then he swallows Aymeric down, slick and spit and all, till his nose is deep in the thatch of coarse ebony curls. Aymeric digs his fingers into the mattress, willing himself not to move. An ever-tightening thread of pleasure pulls in him, along with the pressure of a half-healed wound on his ribs. He dares not breathe, dare not move too much lest it tip the balance of pleasure and pain the wrong way.

But should there be pain, he will take it in tandem with this lovely, beloved mouth around him. Estinien is not gentle or languid. This is a duty to give the Knight Commander release and he has never shirked a mission. In a few days, perhaps Aymeric will demand an encore. Ask to be taken slow and watch his lover’s cheeks turn red at the notion-

 _Fury! He is ruthless._ Aymeric swallows his moan, eyes shut tight against the building pleasure. His attention narrows to the sensation and heat and wet, the muscled arms pressed tight against his skin. The soft growl in Estinien’s throat, vibrating up through his spine.

The thread of pain snaps and he struggles to breathe through it, to turn his gasp of discomfort into one of pleasure. Estinien moves faster, pushing Aymeric to a finish he can’t see arriving until stars explode behind his eyes. He releases and releases into Estinien’s throat and feels him drinking it up, swallowing every drop and licking Aymeric clean without shame.

Colorful language bursts from beneath his legs and all the warmth leaves him. Footsteps pad away. Estinien is back in moments, a cold washcloth draped over his brow while hands press against his ribs.

“Ow,” says Aymeric.

“Why didn’t the healer take care of this?”

“He did. You should have seen it before he dealt with it.” It had certainly looked fine enough before they started. Though Aymeric, on checking it, had been too distracted by the other horrifying mark on his front. 

“It’s not one that was stitched,” says Estinien. “I won’t need to fetch someone and _you_ will only have to explain yourself to me.”

“You would be the one explaining if a chirurgeon came, I would lie here an invalid.” He pushes the cloth back and half-opens his eyes. Inordinately pleased to see Estinien’s gaze full of tenderness. Well, tenderness and irritation. “I didn’t think we were _that_ rough.”

“We weren’t. You are still fragile.”

“Mm.” The hands on his wound move quick, dressing it as if they were in the field and not in a manor house. Whatever the setting, there is something about being cared for by this man that turns Aymeric to mush. “I think I had that one coming.”

“Don’t do that. And if I _were_ to punish you, I would have left you unsatisfied.”

“That would have been cruel. Are the bedclothes ruined?”

A pause. “...Damnit. You are the one explaining this to the Count.”

“I am almost certain that the Count knows far more than he lets on.”

“Hn.” Another cool cloth takes care of the mess on their stomachs and thighs. It sounds like he is also attempting to scrub some off the bedclothes. Aymeric enjoys the cloth on his flushed brow and eyelids too much to lift it again.

It comes away eventually, replaced with another soft cloth to dry him off. Estinien remains quick and efficient about it all. He does not relax until Aymeric is clean, dry, and tucked back in under the covers. When he returns to slide into bed, he lies on his side and twines their fingers together. His thumb strokes a steady rhythm against the back of Aymeric’s hand.

“Twould never happen,” he mutters with a yawn.

“Hm?”

“She’s in love with Haurche.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Even in the dim light, Estinien’s pink cheeks are visible. “That is different and you know it.”

“Perhaps.” An unattached Haurchefant _had_ slept with Estinien not that long ago, before he met Nerys. And he has heard rumors about both of them. Though, when it comes to the Warrior of Light and the famous Haurchefant Greystone, most rumors are without basis. Unless Haurchefant does have three secret wives and Nerys does consume her enemies.

Estinien is correct in one sense–she is deeply, irrevocably in love with their friend. Enough to die over and over; to challenge the very laws of time and nature to save him. That had been clear to him the night they welcomed Estinien, Nerys, Alphinaud, and _Lady Iceheart_ into the city. And Haurchefant has made no secret of his regard for the Warrior.

“Perhaps,” he repeats. “It is nice to know our fantasies align, at least.”

“You knew that when you brought it up with your hand around my cock.”

“True.” He chuckles. “Tell me more sweet things, love.”

“Go to sleep, Aymeric.”

“Yes sir.” Aymeric gives his hand a final squeeze and closes his eyes. There are worse things, then not being able to welcome Nerys into their bed. He had seen many dark fates today to prove it. But he is alive, his comrades are alive, his beloved partner is a warm bastion beside him. 

_It is,_ he thinks as he listens to Estinien breathing. _More happiness than I deserve._ _But if the Fury has seen fit to bless me, I shan't question it._

That is his last thought before he drifts away. Contrary to what he feared, there are no nightmares. Just deep, dreamless sleep to energize him for the coming days.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> If you want to leave a comment (and no worry if you don't), I am always excited to read your response!


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